


If on a Winter's Night a Traveller

by PR Zed (przed)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:38:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3450779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It didn't look at all promising from the outside, a tiny storefront with steamed up windows and a faded sign with too many Ws and Ys on it.  Not promising, but better than standing on the pavement, with the winter wind whipping in from the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If on a Winter's Night a Traveller

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2015 [picfor1000](http://picfor1000.livejournal.com) challenge, for [**this prompt**](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/przed/987687/267605/267605_original.jpg), and inspired by a long ago afternoon I spent waiting for a bus in Aberdaron, Wales.

It didn't look at all promising from the outside, a tiny storefront with steamed up windows and a faded sign with too many Ws and Ys on it. Not promising, but better than standing on the pavement, with the winter wind whipping in from the sea.

Bodie opened the door with a grimace, expecting stale scones and scowling locals. Instead he found a cosy room with a roaring fire.

"Be with you in a minute, love," a red-cheeked woman chirped, her accent as Welsh as the tearoom's sign. With curling grey hair and wearing a cheerful pinny, she looked like everyone's idea of a kindly granny.

Granny bustled around, delivering a steaming pot of tea to a table inhabited by two old duffers, and spiriting away the plates in front of a couple of middle-aged ladies.

"You sit down over there, love," Granny finally said, pointing to a table near the glowing fireplace. "Shall I bring you a pot of tea?"

Bodie nodded and went to take his place, and nearly tripped. He looked down to find a sleek black cat winding around his legs.

"You don't half take chances," he muttered to the cat, gently nudging it aside before sitting down.

He nodded when Granny came back with a teapot and a mug. 

"Would you like a plate of scones?" she asked. "I've just made a fresh batch."

"Why not?"

The scones were delivered with a smile and pots of jam and clotted cream. Bodie wasn't sure he felt like eating anything let alone scones, but hunger won out and he'd demolished the lot before he'd realized it and then wrapped his hands around the mug, willing the tea's warmth to take away the trembling in his hands.

He sat staring into the mug, feeling its heat cooling in his hands until he was startled by the sound of the door opening.

"You take care, Rodney," Granny was saying to the one old duffer at the door. "The wind's coming up. You don't want George getting a chill."

"We can look after ourselves, Brenda," the other old duffer said as he came up behind his friend. He noticed Bodie looking his way. "Mind she doesn't start telling you to bundle up, young fella."

Granny, Brenda, sent them on their way with a slap, and Bodie finally realized the middle-aged ladies had left without him noticing.

_Brilliant observing, 3.7. You'll have PIRA gunman on your doorstep next._

He shivered and put all thoughts of those PIRA bastards out of his mind and worked on deciding whether he should ask for another plate of scones. Eat when you can, sleep when you can the army had taught him. He doubted he'd be sleeping any time soon; at least he could feed his body.

"You've made a friend," Brenda said.

Bodie blinked, and realized the cat had jumped up on the chair beside him and looked to be deciding whether to try for his lap or the crumbs on his plate.

"I'd advise you to keep an eye on your plate. Winston is a shameless thief."

"I will."

Brenda wiped her hands on her pinny and looked ready to move away, but then she seemed to change her mind.

"I know I shouldn't say anything, but you're one of the lads who stopped that business down at the water earlier, aren't you?"

"Yeah." And wasn't that a mild way of putting it, stopping those bastards from trying to bring a bloody great bomb across from Ireland in that little boat. It was a wonder they all hadn't been blown up. That there hadn't been more injured. Christ…

"Our constable was in earlier. Told me how brave you'd all been." She paused for a moment. "He also told me one of your boys was hurt."

Bodie laughed, a hollow sound that choked in his throat.

"Was it a friend of yours, love?"

"Yeah."

She actually clucked and put a tentative hand on his shoulder that he struggled not to flinch from.

"I expect they've taken him to hospital in Bangor." She looked at him closely. "If you don't mind my asking, why aren't you with him?"

Why indeed? Because it had scared the shit out of him, seeing Doyle bleeding on that beach, had made him remember things he'd rather forget. Like finding Ray in his flat after Mayli had shot him, like watching Ray decide not to die. He wasn't sure if he could go through all that again. Not when it also made him feel things he'd long denied to himself and to Doyle.

"Did you see those two old gents?" she asked out of the blue. Bodie nodded. "Rodney and George fought together in the last big war. I saw them when they came home. George had been badly shot up. Rodney looked like he wasn't sure what to do, except that he'd kill anyone who hurt George again." She paused for a moment. "You look a bit like that yourself." 

Bodie looked into her eyes and clenched his jaw. She calmly held his gaze.

"Rodney and George, they've been together ever since, you know." Bodie finally did flinch. Brenda squeezed his shoulder, then headed towards the kitchen. "I'm making you up a box of scones, and you're going to drive up to Bangor and look after your friend," Brenda said with the tone of a woman used to getting her way.

He could have come up with a million reasons not to go—there was a storm coming up, Doyle didn't need him, he'd just be in the way—but they were all lies. The truth was he was afraid. Afraid of Doyle dying; afraid of what might happen if Doyle lived. But Brenda was right about one thing: he _was_ like Rodney. He'd killed the bloke who'd put the bullet in Doyle.

He'd killed for Doyle, he'd willingly die for him. But could he live for him? Live _with_ him?

Perhaps it was time to find out.


End file.
